Avert your eyes.

In the Horrible Days Hall of Fame of my mothering career, last Wednesday is going to have at least an Honorable Mention. I won't get cocky and think it will rank among the super doozies, but it will stand out from the mundane for sure.

I was sick. I felt awful. I felt like someone had stuck me in the washing machine, dragged me out wet and ragged, and forced me to run windsprints. My throat hurt and I had no energy.

My mom, fresh back from a trip to Europe (oh, her horrid life) and eager to see the kids, offered to take us to dinner since I was single parenting that night and in no shape to cook.

So, the five of us headed to a nearby restaurant that I rank as 1) easy, 2) surefire for kids actually eating the food we will pay for, and 3) pretty awful when it comes to said food quality. But did I mention the sore throat and the need to feed the children? I ordered a Diet Coke and tried to tune out the din at my own table.

About three quarters of the way through our meal, middle child C. decided to visit the WC. Of course, Baby B. decided he also needed to visit the WC, even though he really didn't need to go. But being the dutiful guardians of a newly potty-training child, we were beholden to take him whether we believed him or not. I begged my mom, however, to take the reins. I mean, isn't that kind of the point of grandparents sometimes? They are willing to do things like supervise potty outings while the run-ragged parents nurse their Diet Cokes in a moment of peace? No?

A few minutes later, my mom returned to the table sans Baby B. "You need this like you need a hole in the head," she began, and pictures flashed through my head: pooped-in underwear. A child who had fallen in the toilet. A potty accident of some kind. "Baby B. ran away from me all stubborn like he always does, and he smashed his fingers in the bathroom door. It's pretty bad."

"Where is he?" I said, looking behind her.

"I left him in there," she said weakly. "He wanted you."

I ran to the bathroom through the nearly-empty restaurant, and when I opened the bathroom door, I found my little three-year-old baby standing at the bathroom counter, crying hysterically but quietly, his hand splayed out on the countertop, wet and bleeding. Two of the fingertips on his right hand looked flattened on top, with blood and bruising.

As I walked him quickly out the door, my adrenaline pumped and my thoughts raced. It's amazing what the motherhood thing does to you -- it's like your whole body chemistry changes. I fully believe when I am in those moments when my child is hurt and crisis is current that I could lift a car if I had to. But I'm still just a thirtysomething kid, feeling like I wish a grown-up would step in and tell me what to do.

I ran Baby B. out to the car and grabbed the Polysporin and bandaids I had there from the last wounds we had to treat a week or so ago. Without thinking about it, I just squirted the ointment on the fingertips and wrapped the fingers. When my mom and the other boys made it out to the car, I just started driving towards our after-hours pediatric clinic of choice. Downtown. In rush-hour traffic. I called Husband at the office: "I need you to leave right now and meet me at the clinic," I said. He said okay and hung up, no questions asked. Baby B. wailed the entire way to the office -- easily twenty minutes. It was a constant, pained wail of a child in shock.

Luckily, the office was empty, and the nurses rushed Baby B. back quickly. Even in the front triage office, Baby B. was so hysterical that he would pass out asleep in mid-scream against my chest. Since then, I have spoken to several parents who said they knew their children were really hurt when they fell asleep right afterward -- as if the body just knows how to help defend the psyche. B. continued to fall asleep abruptly off and on throughout our 90-minute stay at the clinic.

Eventually, we X-rayed the hand, unwrapped it, cleaned it, re-wrapped it. No obvious fractures, but the doctors weren't sure what to think and said that we would have to just wait and see how he would heal. As the nurse finished wrapping his fingers for the night, B. cried hysterically. "It's okay," I said in his ear. "It's all over now. It's finished."

B. whimpered and slowed his crying. "Do... I ... get... a ... sticker... now?" he choked. We burst out laughing. "Dude, you will get MANY stickers," we assured him.

After a pediatrician referral to an orthopedic hand specialist (because when he saw the wounds, my pediatrician said, "You know, I have seen this kind of thing in the movies, but I don't think I am ready to guest star in this film"), it was determined that B. had two fingernails completely ripped off during the initial accident. He's under the supervision of the specialist now and he's past the initial risk of infection. Now we just wait to see how his fingernails grow back, if they grow back, and we hope to keep him safe from re-injury.

I am a very slow learner, I think, because I am always amazed at how quickly things can happen and how much can change in an instant. B.'s perfect little hand is mangled a bit right now, his fingertips still bruised and bloody and not at all okay for my squeamish eyes. We were just going out to eat. And even still, this is a relatively small hiccup in our lives. He'll heal. But look how fast -- and how dramatic -- a simple act can be.

I think my children are the reason anti-anxiety medication is developed. If we all survive their childhoods, it will be a freaking miracle.